


after the after

by softweeping



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-07 11:02:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16852810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softweeping/pseuds/softweeping
Summary: "Do you dream, Hank?""Sometimes. I'm one of the unlucky sons of bitches who do. Why?"Connor still won't look at him; all he can see is a small red circle. "What do you dream about?"----Based off of a fangame; link in the work notes and rather important.





	after the after

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by Epsee's game what comes after. go play that first [here](http://epsee.itch.io/whatcomesafter); keep in mind cws for the game include violence, alcohol, and (spoilers:) ... ..- .. -.-. .. -.. .

He wakes up in the middle of the night. It's different from the way the nightmares usually wake him, his heart racing a mile a minute and a scream trapped behind his lips — instead, it's a quiet, sudden waking, simply asleep one minute and awake the next, and it takes a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness of the room.

Except it isn't dark, not truly: his clock glows on the nightstand, proudly declaring it 3:14AM, and a sliver of light from the hallway creeps in through a crack in the door. It's normal, familiar, and for a moment, Hank forgets that he isn't the only one here.

Just for a moment. Then he rolls over, sees the figure hunched over the side of the bed, the rapidly flickering and cycling red reflecting off the white of the bedroom curtains. Connor is completely still, though from this angle, Hank can't see his face — just his LED, an aggrieved, steady crimson — and after a second, he turns back toward the bed.

He's never been able to trick Connor, knows that his scans give him away every time. Still, Hank closes his eyes on instinct, pretending to still be asleep. To his surprise, Connor doesn't call him on it; he's simply silent, doesn't seem to be making a move to climb back under the covers. It worries him, in all honesty: he's known that Connor goes into some kind of low-power mode instead of sleeping, consistently finds himself grateful that the android gave in to his request to at least lie down, but for his LED to be so red for what's probably been a while, and for him to not comment on Hank's being awake, it doesn't sit right.

"Hank?"

Connor's voice is quiet, near to inaudible — it would almost be a relief to hear, if it didn't also sound like he's on the verge of tears. Hank doesn't even know if androids _can_ cry, but he drops the act immediately, something in his chest wrenching at the sound. There's no sign of tears when he looks up at Connor, just a pinprick crease between his brows and his LED circling red, red, red. It takes far too long for Hank to realize that there's a hand outstretched toward him.

His own voice is low, soft; there's something fragile in the air, and even if he can't put a name to it, Hank is terrified of shattering it. "What's going on, Con?"

Connor's face crumples as soon as Hank speaks, and he can't for the life of him figure out if it's a good or a bad thing. He drops his hand into his lap, and there's a furtive glance toward the closet as he looks away. Hank follows the look, frowns at the closed doors when he sees nothing out of place; when he shifts his attention back, Connor's turned away from him again, shoulders hunched and hands clasped in front of him. There's a huff as Hank sits up, reaching to shake Connor's shoulder.

"Hey. Talk to me."

"Do you dream, Hank?"

The question takes him by surprise, enough that Hank has to take a moment to answer. "Sometimes. I'm one of the unlucky sons of bitches who do. Why?"

Connor still won't look at him; all he can see is a small red circle. "What do you dream about?"

Crime scenes. Viscera. A small, still hand, held in his. Blue dripping from his fingertips. Pressure at his temple. Thousands of eyes staring at him while seeing nothing, and panic surging through him as he looks for the one pair of doe brown that knows him. 

"I dunno. Lots of stuff. Work, mostly." A pause, and it feels necessary to add, "You, sometimes."

Connor's shoulders shift as he takes a breath. The red shifts to yellow, which Hank assumes is a good sign. 

"How do you know when you're no longer dreaming?"

Well. Shit. That's a question, isn't it? Hank groans, scrubbing a hand back through his hair. It's too damn early to start getting philosophical.

"Listen, you know I enjoy our little talks, but you've gotta be kidding me right now."

Connor winces, his LED flicking back to red, and immediately Hank regrets saying it. "I'm having some — difficulty. I believe I may have had a dream, but... I'm not sure if this is an extension of it or not." 

Finally, finally, Connor turns to look at him again, and the expression on his face hurts Hank's heart. 

"Are you real, Hank, or am I still dreaming?"

He doesn't say anything, _can't_ say anything to that, his eyes wide and mouth agape. So instead, he leans forward to grab Connor's arm, drag him into a crushing hug. At first, Connor is stiff against him; Hank just cups a hand at the back of his skull, pulls him as close as he possibly can. He begins to relax in increments, until finally he's pressing into Hank of his own volition, his face buried into one broad shoulder. Hank's chest twinges, wishing he could curl around Connor, protect him from everything.

"I'm real, Connor. I'm here." 

"I dreamt that you weren't."

His voice is muffled as he speaks into Hank's shirt, fingers gripping into the fabric. Hank leans to press a kiss to his temple, heaving out a sigh as he does. How can he explain so that it makes sense, makes Connor feel better?

"I'm gonna start by saying: I have no fucking clue what an android's dreams are like. Hell, far as I know, you're the first." Connor's fingers just curl tighter, and there's a momentary fear of his shirt ripping. It's inconsequential, though, isn't it? Especially in the face of Connor's unsurety. "For humans, you can tell because... once you wake up, things about the dream go away. Some people wake up and realize nothing about it made sense, like the sky was green or they were talking with celebrities they don't actually know; others..." He takes a deep breath, thinking on his own dreams. "Others, the edges get kinda blurry, details get lost. I had a dream once where I was on a roadtrip with Cole; one minute we were here in Detroit, the next we were at Disneyland. The entire trip between was gone, but I was _sure_ it'd happened." 

He doesn't bother mentioning that this dream had taken place _after_ he'd lost Cole, how he'd woken up with tears streaming down his face and a scream vibrating through his veins. How he'd jumped out of bed to go into Cole's room to check on him, before remembering he'd moved out of that house and that there was no room for Cole here. How _that_ was how he'd known it'd been a dream. Instead, Hank closes his eyes, lets himself relax back against the headboard with Connor braced against him.

"I dunno if it's the same for your dreams, since. Y'know. I'm not an android. I swear to you, though: this is real. I'm real, and so're you."

After a moment, he opens his eyes: Connor's LED has gone a solid yellow, his fingers relaxing their deathgrip on Hank's shirt. He almost finds himself wondering if Connor's fallen asleep, before remembering that isn't something he does. So Hank slides his hand up into Connor's hair instead, tousles what's left of his perfect coif. Connor finally lets go of him, but only just: it's enough that he can pull away, frown up at Hank, and with the mess of his hair, the sight is... ridiculously endearing. He dips forward to kiss him, something soft and sweet, before settling back and closing his eyes.

"C'mon. It's too early; we can do some research or something once the sun's actually up, okay?"

Connor shifts to let Hank get comfortable, watching as he sinks back into the pillows and starts to fall back to sleep. After a moment, though, he's still awake, and Hank frowns. Without looking, he plants a hand on top of Connor's head, forces him to stop staring and lay his head onto Hank's chest instead. 

"Good night, Connor."

"Good night, Hank."

It's easier, now that he can't feel eyes staring at him, and even if he can just barely see the light glowing off of Connor's LED through his eyelids, Hank finds himself slipping off into sleep. He can feel himself standing on the precipice, when a voice comes through.

"Hank, where's your stripy shirt?"

It's so nonsensical, so random, that he's honestly not sure if it isn't a dream. 

"I dunno. Probably in the wash or something," he murmurs, voice fading and barely audible by the last word.

He's asleep before he sees Connor's LED flash bright red.

**Author's Note:**

> don't forget to tell Epsee how much the game broke your heart!


End file.
